


Tell Me a Story

by Elektra Pendragon (elekdragon)



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-09-25
Updated: 2005-09-25
Packaged: 2017-10-15 05:14:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/157398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elekdragon/pseuds/Elektra%20Pendragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Sons of Gondor, as told through three vignettes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tell Me a Story

**Author's Note:**

> I made up the stories about Isildur and Anarion.

"Tell me a story."

The old man looked down at the small boy, and his wide mouth grew wider with a smile. "Young Master! Long time since you came down this way." He gestured, and the boy climbed into his lap, settling down and looking up expectantly. "Sos you want a story, eh? I've got just the one. All about a young master like yourself, and your brother."

"Bor'mir's in the story?" the boy asked, his eyes growing wide and excited.

The old man laughed. "No, but a boy very much like him! His name was Isildur."

The boy rubbed his nose. "That doesn't sound like Bor'mir. Was he gonna be a Steward, too?"

"No, even better, Young Master. He was going to be a king. Together, Isildur and his little brother Anarion ruled Gondor."

The boy's mouth opened in a little O. The old man smiled, chucked him under the chin, and continued. "When Isildur was ten--"

"Bor'mir's nine!" the boy insisted.

"Yes, but this story isn't about Boromir. When Isildur was ten, he saw a great bird flying through the halls of his grand home. Its wide wings swept the walls, creating such a wind it was like the whole house would fall!" The old man stretched out his arms like wings, flapping them slowly, his mouth making the noise of a hundred winds. He loomed above the young boy, continuing his story to the beating of his slow moving arms.

"He was alone in the hallway, and the great bird was heading towards his little brother's room. Anarion was just five, and couldn't defend himself yet. He couldn't even pick up a shortsword, he was so small! So Isildur chased after the bird. The bird, oh, it made a mess it did! Knocking things off the walls, blowing things over. A sword that belonged to his long dead ancestors was fallen to the floor. The bird was getting closer and closer, so Isildur picked up the sword and ATTACKED!" The old man smacked his palms together with a great noise, startling the boy.

"With a mighty roar the bird swooped through the nearest door to escape the widely swinging blade. Unfortunately, it was Anarion's door! Isildur ran in and with all his might he swung that sword like his good father taught him and CRASH!! he drove that blade straight into the bird's heart. It fell dead not three paces from the boy's bed, where he was sleeping. Anarion didn't even wake up. Everyone came running with the noise, and found the bird dead at Isildur's feet. His father gave him the feathers, and when he was older Isildur used the feathers to make himself a great set of arrows that he used against the Orcs at the Great Battle. A single arrow could skewer 10 Orcs clean through! He was a great man, that Isildur..."

The old man finished his tale, and looked down at his little audience. The child's eyes were distant, thoughtful, as the boy pondered seriously over the story. The old man waited, and finally the boy spoke.

"That was nice. Can I hear a story about Bor'mir now?"

The old man laughed.

****

"Tell me a story."

The old man nodded, his face turned so his one good eye could better see the young man standing before him. "I thought you weren't coming back, young Faramir. Your father--"

"My father told me that if he caught me in the library again, he would personally see to my punishment. I believe his exact words were, 'See to the lands, boy. The fresh air might make you grow yet!'" Faramir laughed easily, his hands gracefully gesturing around him. "Does the air get fresher than here?" The trees outside the walls of the White City were tall, shimmering in the sunlight as their great leaves gave shade to the old man sitting on a stump. For as long as he could remember, the old man had been there, filled with tales of long ago.

The old man laughed his familiar, gravelly laugh. "No, I s'pose not, Young Master. S'pose not. Sos you want a story, eh? I've got just the one!" Faramir quickly sat at the man's feet, his long arms curling around his knees, holding them to his chest. He watched the man's face, waiting eagerly for his story. "Long ago, when Anarion was already a man as tall and as strong as his brother, there came a call in the air--"

"No, no no!" Faramir impatiently interrupted the old storyteller. "I've already heard this story. Dozens of times. I want to hear a new one!"

The old man looked over at the young master, his gaze roving over Faramir's face. "Already heard that one, have you? Well, what about when Isildur slew the dragon?"

"Yes," Faramir breathed out the word on an impatient sigh. "I can recite that one word-for-word. I think it's your favorite. I need to hear something new."

"Something new?" The old man leaned back on his stump, his blind eye moving over the landscape. His hand came up to stroke his beard as his mind searched for something for the young master. "Have I ever told you the tale of Anarion's death?"

Faramir waved his hand. "I read about it in the library." He sucked in a deep breath, and started to recite, "Lo, and upon this day did the great son of Gondor--"

The old man cackled. "Right young storyteller you'll make, Young Master Faramir. Sos you've read the story, but have I told you what really happened?"

Faramir looked interested. "There's more?"

"Oh, yes, plenty more. Not so much the death--though that is a sad story indeed. Foul orcs!" The old man spit on the ground, narrowly missing Faramir's feet. "But after... Aye, that's a story for the telling." The old man grew silent, nodding to himself as he looked up to the sky.

Finally, Faramir couldn't stand it longer. "Please, tell me the story!"

The old man patted his lap absently, but his gaze returned to Faramir once more. "Long ago, after the Great Battle was over and those who survived found their way home, the great King Isildur, brother of Anarion, took upon himself to lead the great procession to Minas Anor, the former city of his noble brother. He dressed all in black, for his thoughts were lost in the darkness and sadness that Anarion's absence left in his heart. He started out from Minas Ithil with the rising of the moon, taking no food, no horse, no companion.

"He started out alone, but soon his people saw his sorrow--for they too mourned the great king--and they joined him on his march. Oh, such a grand march it was. You could see the people from far off, their faces lifted to the sky, shining with tears. As they passed through meadow and forest, the animals themselves came to mourn with Isildur. The birds sang of Anarion's glorious achievements. The stag bent its great head, its horns scraping the ground. The whole world seemed to weep around them. Not even the sun rose to greet them the next day--shadows covered the land, as the blackness covered Isildur's heart.

"When it came that they approached the great city, a call rose up. 'The Lords of Gondor have returned!' the people shouted. For, you see, they could not tell that their king was dead. No man had survived to tell the tale before Isildur arrived. The clear ringing of silver trumpets called their master home, but he could no longer answer."

The old man fell into silence, his eyes closed and his face serene. For a moment, Faramir feared that he had fallen asleep, but when his eyes opened again, Faramir could see them shimmer with tears.

"What happened?"

"The shouts of glory became low, weeping moans as Isildur and his people came through the gate. They did not need to hear the words--one look upon the good king's face, and all knew what had befallen his noble brother. Isildur did not stop, but continued to the dwelling of his brother. The halls were dark. It was as if light itself had long left the grand house, since it had been long since its master walked the echoing halls.

"There, in the great hall of the king, Isildur walked. No one entered the room but the king, for this was his duty alone. He approached the empty throne, his head bowed and his feet heavy with weight beyond his years. He kneeled down before the empty chair as though the king still sat. Upon the foot of the chair, he laid out Anarion's sword, broken in half. Upon that, he placed the helmet of that foul creature he had slain.

"'For you, my beloved brother, my king,' Isildur said. He kissed the hem of the cloak still draped across the throne, and finally the tears did fall from his salt-worn eyes.

"There was a sound, like a great sigh of wind. It was said, later, that the silver trumpets had started to call without their masters' breath, that all the white birds of the city had taken flight as one great burst of light. The sun broke through the heavy clouds, and golden light filled the great hall of the king.

"Anarion was home, and finally found peace."

Faramir was surprised to feel the wetness on his cheeks as he lifted his face to the soft breeze. He watched the sunlight play off a waxy leaf, imaging just how Isildur must have felt. He could not imagine having to make the same pilgrimage for his brother. Faramir wasn't sure he could bear it should Boromir die.

Faramir was about to ask a question, but the old man had not finished his tale. "That very day, Isildur planted a seedling of the White Trees, in honour of his brother. It has since been our symbol, the mark of Gondor for all time. The symbol of the undying bond between brothers, and the glory of our kingdom."

"What happened to Anarion's body?"

The old man gave a mischievous smile. "That, young master, is a tale for another day."

***

"Tell me a story!"

Boromir stretched out in Faramir's lap, his head resting against his chest. Boromir had been gone so long this time, but, as always, when he returned it was as though no time had past at all. Faramir laughed lightly, watching his brother's head bounce on his chest, before he settled back against the stump and thought of what story to tell.

The sun was low in the sky, but darkness was still a long time off. The shadows of the forest painted spots and stripes across Boromir's face as he closed his eyes, resting against his brother as he waited for the story to begin. Once this stump had been the home of an old man who told the most wonderful stories Faramir had ever heard, but the man was dead now, and only Faramir came to the stump now to remember. Boromir, as always, knew just where to find him when he disappeared, recalling the times that Faramir had dragged him to see the old storyteller when they were younger.

"What kind of story do you want today?" Faramir finally asked, unable to think of one appropriate for the occasion. He brushed a hand across Boromir's forehead, smoothing down his hair, feeling how it had grown longer.

Boromir's eyes opened dreamily, and he smiled. "Tell me about Isildur and Anarion, about the glory of Gondor."

Faramir leaned his head back against the stump, looking past the trees to the great city of Minas Tirith. "Have I ever told you about the day the brothers became the kings of Gondor?" Faramir looked down to see that Boromir had closed his eyes again, his ear pressed to Faramir's chest. Boromir shook his head 'no,' and then rubbed his cheek against Faramir's shirt, making himself more comfortable.

"The day was glorious," Faramir began, his voice rumbling in his chest as he drew the story with his words. "Their father placed the crowns upon their heads--one gold and one silver, but neither the higher of the two. The two kings would be equals. Each of them would rule a share of the land under their father, the great and noble king of all men. After their father crowned them, the brothers turned to one another. Bending to one knee, they pledged their houses to each other's hand, swearing loyalty to one another. A neverbreaking bond that would always keep Gondor one land, one soul within two bodies. Only together would they ever feel complete."

Faramir ran his hand over Boromir's shoulder, squeezing in an affectionate hug before reaching down to entwine his fingers with his brothers. Boromir's hands were rougher, tanned from long days of training in the sun and weather. It made Faramir's hands look pale like moonlight against his dark skin.

"'I will follow you, my brother, my king,' they swore. And all the lands rejoiced at the promise of their beloved kings."

"I will follow you, my brother, my king," Boromir repeated dreamily. His fingers squeezed around Faramir's hand.


End file.
